


After New York, Darkness

by CooperCooperGo



Series: Imagine ClintCoulson Prompt Fills [11]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Superhero Clint, Supervillain Coulson, dark timeline, get together?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 07:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14304231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CooperCooperGo/pseuds/CooperCooperGo
Summary: It wasn't just Manhattan that was left in pieces after the Battle of New York. When it was all over, people picked up what fragments of their old lives they could find and put themselves back together as best they could. Alone, Agent Phil Coulson reassembles himself into a new shape—something stronger, something darker. But there are still a few pieces missing.





	After New York, Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> For the Imagine Clint/Coulson prompt: An AU-ish please, where one is a superhero and the other is a super-villain, but they can't deny that they've attracted to each other. Thanks!
> 
> Author's Note: Thanks to the folk on Tumblr who asked for more of this story! But howwww. Honestly, how would you do it without the whole thing turning into an absolute heart-breaker…I make myself sad just thinking about it…

The door on the far side of the warehouse swings open and a man steps through. And Clint is hit with a full-body wave of _'Of course. Who else could it be.'_

Logically, there were only a handful of people who could have given what was left of the Avengers so much trouble after New York.

Emotionally, his brain is looping _‘oh shit oh shit oh shit’_ on autorepeat.

It couldn't have been Loki. He'd lost interest in his Terran kingdom quickly, disappearing as precipitously as he came, leaving chaos in his wake. No, the Avengers’ greatest enemy after New York seemed to know everything about them—guessing their plans, avoiding their traps, strategically destroying or stealing their resources, effortlessly predicting their next moves. Like he knew them better than they knew themselves.

Like he was using them for something they couldn't guess—manipulating, steering, _handling_.

Phil Coulson takes his time walking across the concrete floor of the cavernous warehouse, his steps measured and even. The razor lines of his dark suit are sharply backlit in the glare of the open door, and a long shadow advances in front of him as he comes. _Step, step, step_ —the percussion of his heels bounces off the bare metal walls, echoes weirdly in the rafters. Clint twists his hands behind him, wrists raw and bleeding, but he's been struggling since they'd put him in this chair hours ago and the restraints aren't budging. There's nothing he can do but wait.

Coulson's shadow reaches him first, climbing up from Clint's feet to his face slowly, black and ominous. The ice-water shock of seeing his old friend…handler…friend…oh fuck it just say it— _crush_ —again is draining away but the familiar low burn of attraction is still there.

 _Great_.

Clint suppresses the impulse to squirm and looks up.

Coulson is looking down at him dispassionately, wearing the bland and benevolent smile that never fooled anyone that ever knew him. The smile slides into a smirk, a slight compression of his lips, as if he’s reading everything Clint is feeling from his face—reading and understanding—as easily as opening a file.

Clint feels his ears heat. _Oh shit you are not blushing, idiot, stop it stop it._

"Hello, Barton," Coulson says, quietly. "How have you been?"

 _Ow_. Trust Phil Coulson to wield a simple question like a knife to the heart.

How _has_ he been since New York? Since Loki? Since what they’ve started to call ‘the Civil War?’ The best he can say is busy. Busy running, busy hiding, busy trying to do right—to be a hero—when there are no more untarnished choices, just an endless, grey, slog through ever more dubious compromises.

Another day another tiny divot chipped out of his soul. How many days has it been? He’s lost count.

Clint reaches desperately for his covert training, to give himself a few seconds to regain his balance, to keep the emotion out of his voice.

"Phil. Phil Coulson,” he says. “I thought you were dead."

Coulson snorts a little puff of air at the deflection. It might be amusement. It might be disappointment. It could be a world-weary sigh. It's impossible to tell.

"‘Escape from New York’ reference? It fits."

Coulson half-turns his head and nods. One of the black-armored goons that tied Clint down earlier scrambles off the wall, grabs a chair and fast-walks it over, placing it next to his boss, who sits without looking at it.

Clint studies him through lowered lashes, searching for anything he can use—some hint of emotion, a remnant of the warmth that used to be in his eyes when he'd looked at Clint before, when he thought Clint wouldn't notice, couldn't see.

His shoulder-angel pokes him in the ear. _‘Focus, you stupid carnie! This is not that guy. This guy is dangerous. Get a grip!’_ His internal argument is a waste of effort, though. Phil Coulson had always been dangerous. It’s one of the things that makes him so damn hot. _Wait, what? Not hot. Shut up, Clint, shut up shut up shut up._

Clint takes a deep breath and gestures at the space around him with his chin. "So. This your evil lair?"

"It’s just a warehouse in Queens, Barton. No need to be dramatic."

"Kidnapping me part of your evil plan?

"What makes you think I have an evil plan?"

Clint eyes his old boss. The Coulson he used to know always had a plan. He had handfuls of plans. His plans had plans. There was always a plan.

But this Coulson is…different. It’s subtle, hard to put into words, but he looks...leaner, harder, sharper. As if all the softness had been burned out of him, tempering him in to someone—some _thing_ —else. A weapon.

Still, whatever had happened to him, Phil Coulson couldn’t have changed _that_ much. There’s a plan, Clint would put money on it. He’s here for a reason.

Coulson leans back in his chair. "You haven't answered my question. How have you been?"

"Oh you know, kickin' ass, takin' names. I got caught in the munitions depot your guys blew up in November and busted a couple of ribs. Thanks for that, by the way."

Coulson looks away. For a fractured second some emotion twists the sharp lines of his face. "You were always so quick to put yourself in harm’s way for what you believe is right,” he says. “I never intended to hurt you, Clint.”

Coulson’s face, when he turns back, is warm, kind, sympathetic. Also _intense_. If this is just another one of his masks it’s pretty damn convincing. Clint is suddenly not quite sure what exactly they’re talking about.

His shoulder-angel throws up its hands. _‘It’s like you want to get yourself killed. Moron!’_

Clint takes a breath. “Yeah? Well this shit you’ve got me tired to the chair with kinda hurts. Maybe you should let me go then.”

The bland smile slots back into place. “Not just yet. Not until we’ve had a chance to talk.”

“‘K, let’s talk. How’ve _you_ been, Coulson?”

“I’ve been rebuilding, Clint. Rebuilding and recruiting, enlisting new personnel. Loyal people, carefully vetted. I’ve been restoring resources, reestablishing old networks, tracking down old allies. I’ve been rebuilding SHIELD, Clint. And this time it will be done _right_.”

Clint’s mouth drops open. He can’t help it. _What the hell??_

“Are you crazy? Your evil minions are wrecking shit all over the planet! You betrayed SHIELD!”

“SHIELD betrayed _me_ , Clint. It betrayed _you_. It betrayed _all of us_. The old SHIELD was a rotten, hollow shell, filled with corruption. Nothing more than training wheels for HYDRA. _My_ SHIELD will change the world.”

 _What._ “Your..?”

“Who else will do the work? The Avengers? They’ve outlived their usefulness. You’re fractured, fighting amongst yourselves, directionless, purposeless. Old feuds, old fights, swollen egos, _baggage_ —all getting in the way of the mission. Do you remember what it’s like to have a purpose, Clint? To have clarity? To have a mission that you can believe in?”

Clint remembers. Remembers when SHIELD had saved him, pulled him in off the streets, out of his own misery, off the path of his own self-destruction. Remembers when it had made him part of something worth belonging to, part of something worth dying for.

Coulson leans in, grabs Clint's forearm. His eyes are alight. Fierce. Beautiful. “Do you remember, Clint, what it’s like to follow someone who is willing to work—to sacrifice—to earn your loyalty? Someone that is worthy of having it?”

Coulson’s grip tightens on his arm just this side of pain. That isn't a human hand. What had happened to him without Clint and Natasha at his side, watching his back?

“I…I don’t...”

“Do you want that?” Coulson whispers, leaning in. Close, so close. His voice sinks to a rasp—a prayer, a benediction—his breath hot on Clint’s cheek, the scent of his skin like a drug. “You do, don’t you? I can see it.”

“I…”

Coulson lets him go. He rises from the chair, smooths a hand over the heavy silk of his tie—a gesture so familiar that Clint aches with it. And then he smiles. It’s one of his real smiles, rare as a pearl. Clint remembers when he used to hoard those smiles to himself like treasure. When he would do almost anything to win one.

Coulson toggles a switch at his belt and the restraints holding Clint drop away. He offers him his hand, and Clint just—takes it, god help him. Lets him tug him up from the chair. Coulson’s grip is warm and strong and familiar.

“Come with me, Clint,” he says. “I have so much to show you.”

They’d rescue him, of course they would. Clint knew it was only a matter of time. Nat was looking for him right now, he could feel it in his bones. He only hoped they found him before he gave in.


End file.
